Noctuary
by ZanzibarTheGreat
Summary: The best kept secrets come out at night. Vilkas is determined to unearth the mysteries that surround the newest Companion.
1. Chapter 1

**Part I: **and i run from wolves

Jorrvaskr's the only place he's known as home. Fragments of memories swirl somewhere in the deep chasms of his mind, but he isn't certain if they're lucid dreams peaking from his imagination of what was home before Jorrvaskr. But for the sake of simplicity, he claims this ancient mercenary hall as the only place he's ever known as home. The wilderness falls a narrow second, but only creatures truly call the wild a sanctuary. And he's the sort of man to denounce the beast calling coursing through his blood. So he keeps it at arms-length.

New blood amongst this vagabond gang of mercenaries isn't unusual. They've turned away renowned fighters and adventures, seeing their heart's intentions are unaligned with that of the Companions. It took a certain type of warrior to befit this group. But it wasn't impossible. Given the right array of skills and desires, the Companions could suit a select of individuals.

But she was...different, to say the least.

Vilkas didn't comprehend as to why Aela was distantly captivated by the young Nord, like the fondness of a she-wolf with her growing cub. Hadn't it been The Circle member who extended invitation to the Nord when her group had encountered her in the wilderness? Ludicrous, Vilkas scoffed, the Companions didn't march around handing out invitations into this elite group. But Ria and Farkas, of all people, also spoke highly of the fiery Nord that now sat in their mead hall as a Shield-Sister. What did they really see in her? Better yet, why couldn't he, Vilkas, muscle down the idea that she belonged?

Even Kodlak wanted her here.

So the young Nord, the one who smelled like northern sea salt and coal, was a Companion and there was no debate Vilkas could conjure to reject her position amongst their pack. She deserved the right to call Jorrvaskr home just as much as he did.

He does his best to swerve the dilemma altogether, keeping to himself. He has never been the social creature amongst the Companions, keeping his nose buried in books when not out on missions. And so, the words between him and the young Nord come few and far in between. He prefers it that way. If she was truly worthy of the Companions, she'll earn his extension of friendliness first and foremost.

Nights are the most difficult time of day. He doesn't sleep well, hasn't in a long time. None of those who carry the beast blood ever will. The likes of Aela and Skjor spend their nights hunting in the wilderness to feast away the ache of sleeplessness, for reasons that Vilkas admonished. While he pleas with the Gods for a night of peaceful slumber, it never comes. So he resigns.

He's grown fond of escaping to the yard outside of Jorrvaskr. Most nights, the sky is clear and the stars dapple the dark sky. Perhaps part of it is the coursing of the beast within his blood, and perhaps part of it is his own wonderment, but Vilkas finds a soft comfort underneath the pale face of the moons. On occasion he'll climb up to Skyforge to be closer to the sky, the dying embers of Eorlund's forge still glowing faintly. His brother has teased him about his nighttime wanderings, telling him he's better off trying to catch a wink of sleep than dragging the exhaustion out further. But he doesn't see the difference of misery whether it's tossing around in bed or wallowing under the starlight.

Exiting Jorrvaskr tonight, he catches glimpse of a form inhabiting the training yard. Under the glow of the moonlight, Vilkas sees the wisp of red hair. There's two members of the Companions with a fiery mane of hair, and one of them is Aela, who wouldn't be around Jorrvaskr this time of night.

Asena stands in the yard, her back to the mead hall and eyes tilting towards the star-dappled sky with a glow of mysticism. She's Aela's protégée. The woman Vilkas would prefer to avoid on any given night. But his bed doesn't offer any comfort, and between the two options of skulking back to his room and entertaining a conversation with the newest blood of the Companions, he chooses the lesser of two evils.

He makes his approach obvious, but she hardly wavers at the sound of his footsteps drumming against the steps. He halts, standing even to her, eyes elevating to meet the same sky she gazes at. What does she see up there? What does she think on this night, while the crisp air of Whiterun drifts across the training yard?

There's a wind of silence before he sees her purse her lips. "The sky is clearer farther north," she mentions wistfully. Her voice is smooth, a bit of nostalgia dipping at the end of her sentence. For a moment, he questions whether there's a waver of longing across her facade, but no longer could he question that notion, the blankness that fills Asena's face befalls it again. She's a bit of a mystery. Doesn't talk of home. Doesn't mention a bit of a personal life. Not even Aela, the most trusted warrior to the young Nord, knows much beyond Asena's desire to fight and protect under the honor code of the Companions.

"The winter nights were always the clearest," she continues now, attempting to overcome the bitterness of the drifting silence. "Sometimes, I'd sit outside my house and try to count the stars. My nose froze before I got very far."

He notices she's trying to keep the conversation rolling, and decides to humor her. "What's the most stars you counted?" he questions, his tone neither friendly nor hostile, but more along the lines of flat and lacking interest.

She shrugs nonchalantly. "I can't remember," she responds with crooked frown, "but it hardly scratched the surface of how many stars are out there."

A breath of cool wind batters at the duo. It buffets Asena's long, free-flowing hair. Vilkas can still smell the trace of coal on her. She's never revealed her former home, but the man could draw assumptions from the small details she's disclosed. A northern-born Skyrim Nord. Anybody from the northern fringes of Skyrim were winter-hardened people. They knew only cold and the long desolation winter brought upon them. There wasn't much that broke them. Hard to break the spirit of someone whose already been broken.

And maybe it's the fearlessness, coupled with the undeniable oath of loyalty the Nord yields that wooed Kodlak into extending Asena an invitation to the Companions. The young Nord has much to learn in combat - and Aela personally is seeing to that task. But, perhaps, there's something to be made of Asena. Vilkas hates to admit it, but the facts still lay rock-solid despite his biased scrutiny.

"I should probably be off to bed," Asena resigns, stifling a yawn. "Aela keeps me busy every day."

Vilkas nods, grunting softly to himself. The girl would worship at the feet of Aela if she so desires. It's amusing, and almost endearing, Vilkas decides.

The Nord pauses, eyebrows squinting over her icy blue eyes. "Is there something you desire to say?" She demands, her tone laced with defense. He made an overstep on that response, and the girl is swift to rise to the defense for her mentor.

He shakes his head, holding out his hands innocently. "Don't worry, I'm not criticizing you."

Asena huffs. "But Aela?"

Here we go, Vilkas muses to himself. He draws in a steady breath, knowing the girl won't leave after he's already dug this rut. Carefully, he formulates his explanation as to not abhorrently offend the fresh-blooded Companion. "Aela is undeniably a talented and devout member of the Companions, following her lead is not a poor idea," Vilkas says, his voice hitching for a moment as he continues, "But do not be afraid to be your own person, Asena."

There's a flash of uncertain that takes to Asena's eyes. A fleet second passes where she stands there with her mouth poising to reply, but no words emitting from her.

"I'm not afraid of wolves," she states firmly after contemplation, jaw tightening a bit. For a moment, her blue-eyed gaze reveals that there's more under the surface she desires to say on the subject. But she draws in a steady breath, exhaling with a grim smile. "Good night, Vilkas," she reckons instead, turning towards the mead hall and ducking away.

At the door, he catches her taking a glance back before disappearing into Jorrvaskr. He stares where she once stood, realizing he hasn't taken a breath since she left his side.

Their encounter feeds him with so much more about Asena, yet he gazes into the void where she once stood and realizes he can't put his finger on the red-maned Nord. And he's not entirely sure he ever will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II: **lost it to trying

Skyrim and enjoying spirits went together like the moon and the sky. The members of the Companions did not pass up the opportunity to enjoy themselves on evenings in which their are no tasks to complete.

Vilkas's attitude towards the Companions trooping out to the Bannered Mare, or even joining together at Jorrvaskr to share mead and laughter, has always been a bit off-putting. It took a grand occasion to draw Vilkas from his books to humor the other members of the Companions. He'd rather focus on theory and strategy, emerging his mind into every possible detail this vast would offers. It made him out as somewhat of an unsocial reckluse amongst some of the Companions, especially the boisterous-mouthed Torvar, but Vilkas doesn't pay heed to their judgements. Besides, who is the better warrior? Definitely not the drunk.

It's one of those nights where the slip of an idea passes amongst the Companions to travel down to the Bannered Mare in the Market District. It's probably Torvar who suggests it, since he's finished off most of the mead at Jorrvaskr by now. Quickly a number of them agree to join.

One of them is Farkas, much to Vilkas mild annoyance. While his brother is a completely different being, Vilkas wishes that Farkas saw things at the same level as he. But Farkas enjoys the company of others, and couldn't stand to spend a night mauling through the old parchment of books.

And while Farkas knows that approaching his brother about the outting is a futile attempt, his twin still strides over while Vilkas sits close to the fire, trying to decipher the text before him over the noise of the other Companions preparing to head out. Vilkas tries to ignore his brother, who takes a seat beside him.

"Are you joining us?" Farkas asks.

A bitter laugh escapes Vilkas as he shoots his brother a dubious look. The question answers itself.

"Come on, brother," Farkas beckons with a teasing tone. "You can't pardon yourself from every night out."

The other brother draws in a steady inhale, closing his eyes and shaking his head for a second time. "You know me, Farkas," he speaks with a wary smile, "Drinking the night away has never been high on my list of past times."

"Yes, but you're reluctance to acknowledge your brothers and sisters...doesn't play to other's morale," Farkas remarks with a wolfish grin.

Vilkas shakes his head. "I've never been concerned about the other's judgement."

"Suit yourself," Farkas finally relents, rising from his seat to join the gathering party at the main entrance to Jorrvaskr. There's no surprise that Torvar remains the loudest of the bunch; the Nord heads the congregation heading to the Bannered Mare. Njada and Ria await patiently as well. They wait, though, as if missing a portion of their party.

From the stairs down to the barracks, two female voices rise from the opening door. Bounding up the stairs with lightened spirits are the two fire-haired warriors, Aela and Asena. The seasoned warrior appears poised and calm, while Asena burns with a bit of restless and excited energy. They make over to their destination, their presence eliciting excited remarks from the rest at the door.

"Off we go!" Torvar trumpets, laying his hands on the door and whipping it open. A gust of cool Whiterun air enters the mead hall, reaching Vilkas in his seat far across the hall. For the briefest of heartbeats, Vilkas sees Asena peaking back over her shoulder at him. The rush of air buffets the faint curls of her blazing hair, quickly concealing the soft gaze she sends him. The door winds shut behind the departing group, leaving Vilkas alone to the crackling of the fire and the solemn humming of Tilma while she sits on the opposite side of the fireplace, hemming a pair of pants.

In most circumstances, the quiet is relinquishing to Vilkas. But something sticks to his senses like a burr. Aggravating. Uncomfortable. For what, he wasn't entirely sure. Attempting to focus down on the open book before him, the Companion can't keep his mind tethered to the words on the page. After futile attempts to rope himself back into the task at hand, Vilkas discreetly shuts the book and tosses it onto the table with exasperation.

Nearby, Tilma flinches slightly at the clatter of the book upon the tabletop. Vilkas glances over apologetically, opening his mouth to express his regret for startling her, when the elderly caretaker intervenes with her own words, "You of all people, Vilkas, could use a strong drink and a laugh."

The warrior grimaces, rolling his eyes. "I don't have time for that," he states with dismay. "The greatest warriors -"

"Mara spare me," Tilma cuts in, planting her hands firmly into her lap. The wrinkles deepen along her eyes as she scowls at Vilkas, jaw clenching. "A great warrior knows how to enjoy the small things in life. Not everything is about the battlefield."

A pregnant pause drifts between the two, and Vilkas is only capable of a mute nod after a moment of contemplation.

"Lighten up, young man," Tilma then lightly teases. "Even you deserve some relaxation with your Companion family."

Vilkas chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully before sighing with defeat. "Maybe you're right, Tilma," he agrees.

A soft smile forms against the wrinkles of Tilma's face, eyes beaming. "Of course I am."

Twilight in Whiterun is generally serene. Only within the walls of the Bannered Mare did there seem to be life. Otherwise, the only sounds inhabiting the streets of Whiterun was the flow of the creek near Dragonsreach, and the soft murmuring of the night-guards attempting to keep one another awake through the night shift. Vilkas follows the path down towards the Market District, wondering with each step if he shouldn't resign back to Jorrvaskr and go to bed for another fruitless night of sleep.

His eyes catch themselves tilting up to the skies. The moons are a merely slivers in the sky, drifting in and out of ashen clouds. Between the gaps in the clouds, Vilkas sees the stars above. He counts five stars, before the chasm in the cloud seals up. His eyes dart to another opening, desperately trying to count the little crystals of light before the shifting clouds buried his point of reference. The man chuckles to himself, realizing his childish endeavor. Had the red-haired warrior, Asena, done the same thing in her northern home as a kid?

He hates himself for considering the young warrior. He convinces himself that he only tolerates her because of Kodlak's decision. But she's a different breed. Not a hot-headed, proud warrior such as Njala or Aithis. Not Companion-material-since-childhood such as Aela, or Farkas and he. Instead, she's a simple stranger. Different. And maybe that's what bothers Vilkas the most, is to have something so different amongst the ranks at Jorrvaskr.

Just as Vilkas reaches the front step of the Bannered Mare, the front door swings open with a clatter. A figure blitzes past Vilkas, charging down the steps without a singular acknowledgement of the warrior. The door swings open a second time as another figure steps out, this one Vilkas recognizes as Aela.

"Asena!" Aela calls to the retreating female.

The other female pivots on her heels. Vilkas can see the paleness playing on her cheeks as she opens her mouth to respond, before shaking her head and ducking away.

Aela rolls her eyes, "Gods, Torvar," the huntress curses, passing only a meek glance at Vilkas before reentering the Bannered Mare with a haughtily sigh.

Briefly, Vilkas remains outside. His eyes dart between the door into the Bannered Mare, and the silhouette of Asena disappearing down the roads of Whiterun. She heads west towards the gate, not north towards Jorrvaskr. He contemplates briefly if he should pursue her, but can't find any positive reasoning that would prove that idea to be good. So, instead, he reaches for the door and steps into the warmth of the Bannered Mare.

The fire is roaring from within. A bard lazily strums on his lute across the hall. There's laughter and a general atmosphere of happiness. What occurred just moments ago that sent Asena fleeing does not seem evident. Vilkas navigates through the attendees, finding a seat next to Farkas. The group from the Companions is lost in laughter while Torvar crosses the room to harass the bard into playing a song.

His brother's eyes alight when he notices that Vilkas has joined them. "You came," Farkas states with a waif of merriment. He hands his brother a mug, Vilkas gingerly accepting it.

"What's wrong with Asena?" Vilkas muses. "She decide that Torvar wasn't good enough for her?"

There's a slight twitch to Farkas's face as he winds to stare at Vilkas, eyebrows peaking. "You really need to get out more, Vilkas."

"What does that mean?" he snaps.

"If you'd try to get to know anybody else at the hall, you'd learn a thing or two about them," Farkas explains stoically. "And you'd know why she's upset with Torvar for crossing a line."

Vilkas clenches his jaw, squinting with confusion at what Farkas attempts allude to.

"She's married, icebrain," Farkas finally points out.

The weird, twisted reality hits Vilkas like a wave in a storm. For a man of his observation and keen-eye, the news completely baffles him to a state of quiet awe. She didn't wear a ring, did she? Of course, how would Vilkas truly know, seeing as he did his mostest to avoid engaging the newest Companion. And now he sat amongst company who seemed to know that fact as if it was general knowledge, chastising Vilkas for being dense and uneducated.

Eyes lacing themselves into the glow of the fire across the hall, Vilkas tries to comb his mind for any minute detail over the past few weeks that would link him to this fact. But it doesn't exist, and Vilkas begins to truly ponder the true nature of this warrior. Because he doesn't know a thing, and he _still _doesn't see the exceptional importance that drove Kodlak to accepting her amongst their ranks.

And she's nothing but an enigma. The master of her own details.

_Who was she? Who was she?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III: **all you have is your fire

He tells himself not to worry.

But there's a dense concern that rises in the deepest recesses of his mind for the duo that left to purge a cave near Rorikstead. Aela is more than capable of handling any myriad of enemies, and there's no doubt that the presence of provides strength to the dynamic pair. But it's been a number of days, and each day that passes adds unease amongst the Companions.

After the fifth day of no news, it's Vilkas who tells Kodlak he's heading towards Rorikstead to find them. The Harbinger doesn't debate the idea, and Vilkas recruits Njada to follow him out across the Whiterun Hold. He's planning for the worst. Not much gets past Aela, but should she have been overwhelmed, Asena could only suffice as so much in means of back-up power.

The owner of the given contract at Rorikstead points them south, to a small cave. Goblins. Nothing Aela and Asena combined couldn't have handled. Nothing that should've been troublesome. Vilkas and Njada immediately head to the location. Slaughtered goblins at the mouth of the cave mean that the two missing Companions are somewhere within.

"This doesn't look good," Vilkas catches Njada murmuring as they slip down into the cavern. The waning light of day offers them only so much guidance as they creep deeper into the depths of the cave, turning so that light escapes them. Vilkas doesn't mind the dark, but Njada follows with a waver of panic. So the Circle member stops at a cavern where there's a crack in the ceiling, allowing the fading light of day to flood in. He'll leave Njada here, to guard in case something is following them into the cave.

Vilkas continues alone.

The path ahead slips deeper into the belly of the earth. Vilkas steps over the slain bodies of goblins, stopping as he lays his sights on the body of a human. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, Vilkas kneeling down to more closely observe the demised. It isn't Aela or Asena, much to his relief. The suit of clothes in which the individual wears harkens back Vilkas's memory of the proclaimed Silver Hand group.

Werewolf hunters.

The pieces of the puzzle start to falling together in his mind, and the despair that settles within him pushes the warrior forward. Aela and Asena could be dead. Ambushed within the walls of this cave by the group of damned hunters. His footsteps become urgent. These stupid paths begin to vex him, feeling like he's winding through nothing but an underground labyrinth. He finds only a few sparse goblin bodies, and no other pieces of evidence that would point to the fate of his Companion family.

There's a dance of light ahead, and Vilkas takes a turn in the earthen path. No sooner does he slip around the rocky wall, he walks face-to-face with the pointed tip of an arrowhead. Vilkas's breath hitches itself in his throat until his eyes can make out the flare of red-hair behind the string of the bow.

"Asena," he exhales.

The taut expression in her face sudden relieves itself, a long exhale releasing from her lungs. Dirt clings to the cheeks of her face, and exhaustion hangs as half-moons under her eyes. "Gods, I thought it was one of those damned werewolf hunters," she sighs. She looks like she wants to cry for a moment, her eyes misting before she blinks rapidly, steadily lowering her bow and sticking the arrow back into her quiver.

"What happened?" Vilkas demands.

"Aela is injured," she explains. "Follow me. We had to camp out down here until she was well enough to travel."

"How?" He asks, following her swift steps farther down into the depths of the cave. She doesn't respond, but rather leads Vilkas further into the cavern until they happen upon an opening. Part of the roof is caved in, allowing the night sky to be seen. There's a small fire brewing. Next to the fire, a figure lays.

Aela smiles grimly from the makeshift bed they've constructed. "Ah, I figured they wouldn't trust me to be gone this long," Aela remarks with a bitter chuckle.

"Someone of your capabilities shouldn't take this many days for a simple task," Vilkas teases.

"Just taking my time here," Aela responds wryly. "Really enjoying the view of this damned cave."

"Werewolf hunters," Asena finally says. "The Silver Hand."

Vilkas only nods, approaching Aela to inspect the wound. Her exposed midsection is adorned with an array of stained rags. Softly, he nods at Aela before gently peeling away the old bandaging. Aela flinches, her teeth digging into her lower lip as Vilkas reveals a messy scab. There's a bit of fresh blood at some points, but most of it is healing on its own. There's an assortment of bandages not far from Aela, which Vilkas reaches over to obtain.

"Asena," he instructs, looking over at the young warrior, "Is there any water nearby?"

She nods solemnly. "Yes, it's a cavern or two deeper," she reports.

Vilkas tosses her a clean rag. "Go dampen this for me."

The warrior pivots, quickly vanishing into the darkness of the cave without another word. The two Circle members now remain alone and in silence, Vilkas working to clean what he can with the dry rags.

"Asena saved my life," Aela tells him. "Those werewolf hunters are getting better."

"The Silver Hand are formidable foes," Vilkas darkly agrees.

"I know you aren't fond of her, but she fought very fiercely, even when the odds weren't in her favor," Aela continues to retell the story. Vilkas grows stiff, a part of him irritated by the high levels of praise Aela gives Asena. "She shouldn't have won."

Vilkas pauses, looking at Aela. "Well, you can thank the Gods for the luck they gave both of you."

Aela's eyebrows twitch with annoyance. "Will you ever let her have an inch of glory?" Aela criticizes.

"She's still a whelp. Saving your ass or not," Vilkas responds haughtily.

A fire burns in Aela's eyes, and she opens her mouth to make an ardent response in opposition to Vilkas's statement, but the sound of Asena's returning footsteps silence both Circle members. Asena kneels down at the opposite side of Aela, handing Vilkas the damp cloth. Eyeing it for a second, Vilkas procures it and begins to swab the blood from Aela's wounds. The veteran warrior tilts her head back against the chilliness of the water, an edgy sigh suppressing from her chest.

"How did this happen?" Vilkas finally quizzes.

Aela and Asena share a look, before Aela slowly answers, "A very angry orc and a very big axe."

"Were you...?" Vilkas begins.

"Yes, I was in my form. It was a lot messier before I transformed back," Aela replies edgily. "I really would've died without my form." Then she lays her eyes upon Asena, smirking. "And this little firebolt of a warrior."

Asena bows her head, her hair concealing the flame of a blush upon her cheeks. Vilkas rolls his eyes, forcefully pressing the damp rag into Aela's wound to cause the older warrior to squirm with a groan of protest.

"Easy there," Aela hisses the threat. Vilkas only hums, rewrapping the wound. Aela winces slightly, blue eyes squeezing close as her jaw bones jut out from clenched cheeks.

He takes Aela in an observation. She's always full of fire and ice, but the seasoned Companion knows exhaustion when he sees it. The ragged circles underneath Aela's eyes, though still smeared with her warpaint, are blatantly evident. She shakes just to reach her fingers up to the freshly-bandaged wound, running skin against the texture of the bandages curiously. Despite this, Aela passes Vilkas a grim smile.

"Like new," she remarks dryly.

They've been down here for days, and Vilkas can't muster the thought of spending a night here himself.

"I'll carry you back to Rorikstead. We'll get you a bed there tonight," Vilkas explains.

Aela gives a short laugh, shaking her head dubiously. "Ah, my knight in shining armor, huh?" her raspy voice mocks.

"I don't want to hang out in this cave waiting for you to get better," Vilkas responds. "That bed you've been sleeping in doesn't look promising."

They gather their belongings and embark for the exit to the dismal cave. Once they emerge into the cool of the night air, Vilkas ships Njada back to Whiterun. The sooner the Companions knew of their safety, the better everyone else could sleep. Vilkas advises Asena to tag along with Njada, but the young warrior refuses.

"I won't return unless I'm with my Shield Sister," Asena defends. "This was _our_ mission."

Under normal circumstances, he would argue her point. But, at the same time, Vilkas knows better than to compete against Asena's will.

The moon isn't even at its highest peak when they find Aela a bed at Frostfruit Inn. After a small meal, the warrior turns in for the night, leaving Vilkas and Asena sharing drinks in what is an air of silence. The red-headed Companion gazes out across the tavern with critical eyes, studying a group of Redguards chatting raucously, their laughter splitting through the air. Vilkas, himself, would normally uptake the same occupation, but instead he discreetly watches Asena. She is no longer absorbed between the comfort of her Companion family, and it's interesting to place her somewhere unfamiliar and new.

Her back is straight, shoulders tilting backwards with the uniformity of a soldier at attention. She keeps one hand resting on her thigh, never far from the dagger she keeps sheathed at her side. A dragon could come crashing into the inn, but Asena would be prepared for a fight. It's curious, she never spends a moment relaxed. That, of course, is nothing of criticism from Vilkas, who couldn't relax if Kodlak paid him.

"I highly doubt those drunk Redguards pose as a threat," Vilkas muses with a hum. His words draw Asena back into reality with a flinch, her green eyes flickering from the random groups within the tavern, falling then upon the companion at her side.

She shrugs her shoulders, sighing rigidly. "I spent four days in a cave expecting either beasts or werewolf hunters to kill me," Asena responds stiffly.

Vilkas tilts his head, icy eyes scowling. "That might be it..." he pauses. "No, you're typically like this, aren't you? Somewhere new is somewhere unsafe to you."

"I'd rather be cautious than comfortable."

His response is only a slow nod of agreement. The silence drifts back between the duo, Vilkas ordering another round of mead to settle his senses. He isn't much for new places either. Coupled with the distant threat of the Silver Hand, who perhaps could be somewhere nearby on the Whiterun Hold, Vilkas doubts he'll get even a futile wink of sleep tonight. Even the mead won't coerce him into slumber tonight.

"Aela means a lot to me," Asena states, cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. "I won't rest until she's safe at home."

The male gives a singular chuckle, shaking his head. "We're safe here," he remarks, lying against the initial thoughts racing in his mind about the werewolf hunters. Never fully discredit your enemy, because that's the moment they'll strike. "You, too, need rest, pup."

She frowns. "I can't if I tried, but thanks."

"Tell me, what drives you to be so committed to Aela?" Vilkas presses. The question is invasive, and for a moment he expects some fire-tipped reply to his prying.

But Asena looks straight ahead, the fire growling across the tavern dancing in her eyes.

"She's the older sister I never had," she says. There's a twist of melancholy that pulls at her facial features, eyes dropping to study the dirty floor near her feet. "She's the older sister I wish I had been for my siblings."

"And what's that?"

"Supportive. Protective. A teacher. I spent a lot of my childhood straying from home and being a wild spirit," Asena contemplates with a deepening darkness. "My mother was only one person, and she was perpetually stressed raising five kids. I should've done more to be there for them..and her."

For so long, there's been a blockade in Asena's persona. And here, in the rundown inn in Rorikstead, something's opened.

"Even when I saw that they needed me, I didn't redeem myself. I just found somebody and ran off." It's made almost with the same bitter remark of a mourning person. Vilkas is nearly surprised by the flush of emotion passing over Asena. He swears there's a trace of tears welling up at the base of her eyes, but a sudden bat of eyelashes eliminates the evidence.

Asena straightens up again, jaw clenching as she looks over at Vilkas. At first, there's an amount of masked panic, quickly replaced by the same unwavering confidence of the girl who watches the drunks while her Companion sister, Aela, sleeps upstairs in a bed. Once again, he sees her hand trace itself to her hip, as if double-checking the presence of her weapon plastered to her side. Satisfied with the reaffirmation, Asena rises from her seat. She wrestles money from her pocket, pushing it towards the barkeep.

"You should get some rest, Vilkas," she discerns with the ghost of a coy smile on her lips, as if she knows he'll never get a good's night of rest should he try. And maybe she does comprehend the ill-fate of those cursed with the beast blood. She is, after all, Aela's pup.

Vilkas squints, watching her stride not for the bedrooms, but rather the door leading outside.

"And you, Asena?"

Her green eyes dance as she glances over her shoulder. "I told you, I won't rest until Aela is safe at Jorrvaskr."

There's a moment when the front door to the tavern shuts, that Vilkas debates following her out into the nighttime air. But he knows the quest to disembody Asena's secrets is futile. The secrets embedded deep within Asena's mind are trapped in there for the rest of the night, impervious to any sly attempt to wedge them from their prison. There's no easy solution to unraveling her truths, and so tonight, he concedes defeat and orders another round of mead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV:** i used to make mountains

Autumn comes and goes at Jorrvaskr. The vivid demise of everything in Whiterun fades into a dismal gray of the early days of winter. The first snow comes only a few days into Sun's Dusk, which hardly sticks to the ground, but the frigid temperatures remain. By the tail end of Sun's Dusk, a crystalline white blanket finds a home across the ground at Whiterun. The market square becomes relatively barren, and the children that roam the streets of Whiterun run scarce.

If Vilkas would admit it, the winter is his favorite season. The bitter cold and the brutal winter storms batter the land relentless, yet despite this, the stubborn earth of Skyrim remains standing. The hardy beasts of the land only keep rolling into the punches the weather gives them. The people, too, can not be broken by even the worst of blizzards. The Nords of Skyrim were born with ice in their veins. The winter could not defeat its own.

Asena vanishes several days into Sun's Dusk. At first, she leaves with Aela. But the latter returns several days later as normal. The seasoned Circle member doesn't seem fazed by the absence of her trainee, and goes about business as normal. Aela leaves again later in the month for an extended period of time, and this time returns with Asena in tow.

It's deep into the twilight on the night they return. Tonight, the northern winds blowing from High Hrothgar howl against the solid walls of Jorrvaskr. Outside, the snow skitters across itself, forming deep drifts against the sides of the buildings and the city walls. It's bitterly cold, harkening of the weather to come as winter takes its final form in Skyrim.

Vilkas finds himself in his usual spot near the warm roar of the fire, immersing himself in a book he'd bought off a visiting merchant at the market square. Several of the Companions are still awake. With the dreary weather, hunts and jobs are sparse. Everyone is still teeming with energy and restlessness when the sun sets on the land. Farkas, Athis and Njada still remain in the hall, swapping stories while sharing mead.

Both Aela and Asena drape themselves with warm fur wear. Their cheeks are bright pink, and the trace of dried tears from the wind shearing across their eyes is present. Aela steps into Jorrvaskr with a sigh of relief, while Asena remains thoughtfully quiet.

"Looks like we still beat the snowstorm home," Aela remarks with a firm smile.

Asena tugs the hood of her cloak down from her head. Red locks spill out from their entrapment within the hood, the fire nearly reflecting off her hair. She glances about Jorrvaskr with the melancholy of someone whose been absent. There's a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips, a flush of relief accompanying her features.

"I'm beat," Aela finally says, "off to bed I go."

The trainee nods. "I'll probably stay up a while longer," her voice meekly responds. There's a measure of distance in her words, as if her mind is only halfway present in responding to Aela.

Aela reaches over, gripping Asena's shoulders and giving it a squeeze. "Get some rest, Asena," she advises.

Just as Aela strides off towards the barracks, there's a mocking voice that splits across the hall.

Njada's attention has focused on the returning duo. The sturdy Nord gazes with the predatory glare of a ravenous wolf, a wicked grin pulling at her lips.

"How nice of Aela to go bring her whelp back to us," Njada remarks, voice laced with mockery.

Aela doesn't stop, continuing down the steps with little regard towards Njada. On the other hand, Asena remains in the mead hall, turning to face Njada, who now stands from her seat amongst Athis and Farkas. Advancing towards Asena, Njada curls her arms over her chest and leans in as if scrutinizing Asena now that she's up close.

The younger Nord, Asena, shifts uncomfortably with her jaw clenched. Her eyebrows furrow as she takes a step away from Njada.

"Excuse me," Asena utters, perplexity crossing her face.

Njada rolls her eyes. "Oh please, don't act stupid," Njada spews, "You and Aela don't fool anybody. The whole of Jorrvaskr can see favoritism from a hold away."

Asena's chin tilts as Njada speaks, green eyes blazing. Even from across the hall, Vilkas notices the same determined fury he once saw, months ago, when he'd drawn blades with Asena the day she arrived at Jorrvaskr, asking to become a Companion. It's the same fire Vilkas has seen in a furious mother bear with something to defend, except the thing Asena has to defend is her own honor.

"What are you two doing all those times you run out?" Njada questions.

"Njada, lay off," Athis wards from his seat beside Farkas. The Nord doesn't listen to the elf's plea.

"I heard Aela likes them both. Boys. Girls," Njada presses with a cruel laugh, "Are you two an item, and you're just trying to hide it from the rest of us?"

"Njada," Asena hisses.

"You're not denying it," the antagonist mentions. Her laughter fills the walls of the mead hall, echoing amongst the howls from the wind.

The tensions mounts so that the air feels electrified by it. In a swift maneuver, Asena steps forward and snatches Njada's shirt on either side of her collarbones. She twists the fabric in her fists, using the grip to then elevate Njada off the ground. There's a yelp from Njada, her eyes widening with dismay as she realizes the jeopardizing position she now resides in. Asena nearly growls as she holds Njada for a breathless second, allowing the antagonizing Nord to squirm within her statute grasp.

Farkas, Athis and Vilkas all have risen from their respective seats and made advancing steps towards the feuding couple. While the Companions are capable of settling their own quarrels, means of judgement sometimes remain necessary.

"I hope you can catch up with that running mouth of yours," Asena snarls, low and savage like an enraged wolf. "I'd be a shame if your demise was because you can't seem to keep the damned thing roped in."

Fingers unravel themselves from the fabric of Njada's shirt, the Nord crumpling to the floors of Jorrvaskr with a deafening thud and raspy gasps. Asena takes one second to consider Njada before pivoting and heading towards the door. She slips out into the relentless night, the door slamming behind her.

Time near stands still for a moment, the inhabitants of Jorrvaskr attempting to get a grasp on what just unraveled.

"Honestly speaking," Athis speaks up over the uneasy silence, "You were really asking for that one, Njada."

"I'm going to rip your tongue out, Athis," Njada snarls. She manages herself back to her feet, wordlessly turning and trooping towards the barracks like a mutt with its tail stuck between its legs.

The scene wraps up with open-ended questions. The three remaining mercenaries stand with unsaid confusion passing between them, before Athis only shrugs and mutters something incoherent, taking a seat back to consume the remainder of his mead. Farkas shakes his head dubiously, copying Athis's idea. But Vilkas stands there, glancing at the door in which Asena made her exit. After brief contemplation, he grabs a fur, draping the thick hide over his shoulders, before slipping out into the night.

It's cold.

Vilkas curses both his own curiosity and Asena for drawing him out here.

Luckily, the snow lays an evident path to where Asena has vanished to. Foot prints reveal she's trekked around the mead hall, up to Skyforge. The rocky feature provides a shelter from the brutal wind. She's curled up within the crevice next to the still crackling embers of Eorlund's forge.

"Come to offer your own mockery?" Asena questions tartly when she spies Vilkas scaling up to Skyforge.

He remains quiet, taking a seat upon the rock next to Asena. The red-headed warrior is rigid, eyes not leaving Vilkas as if preparing to rally her second defense of the night. But Vilkas retains his silence, staring off out over the rooftops of Whiterun. She relents, joining Vilkas's eyes across the city.

"I was in Riverwood," she explains after a passing quiet.

Vilkas chuckles. "I didn't ask."

"I'm not stupid," she replies. "You thrive on knowing everyone's knowledge, Vilkas. You wouldn't brave the bitter cold just to give me comforting company."

A little smile tears at his lips. He waits a second, before deciding to carry on the conversation now that his intentions are exposed. "What's in Riverwood?"

"Home."

"Home," he echoes.

Sometimes, Vilkas forgets that there's a world beyond Jorrvaskr in which people claim home. For Farkas and Vilkas, there is very few memories before Jorrvaskr. And Jorrvaskr always was the place he calls home. Nowhere else.

But for people like Asena, there's a life left behind while the life of the Companions takes life. Many like Athis, and Njada relinquished their preexisting life to fixate their focus on the Companions. A balance between the two is rarely met. One of the individuals slowly discovering that bitter-tasting truth is Ria, who's slowly accepting her new home and new family at Jorrvaskr. A great rift placing itself between Ria's life as a Companion and her past life. With time, perhaps Asena would follow in suite to that tune.

Such was the way for Companions.

"My husband...he's a Breton. So we have our own small Moon Festival to celebrate Secunda," she explains. A phantom of happiness elicits itself from her words, but they're gravely subdued by something else. By a melancholic sadness, Vilkas thinks, he isn't entirely sure. "I've hardly seen him since I joined here. So I figured I'd give him some of my time."

"And now, what?" Vilkas asks.

Asena shrugs. "I don't know when I'll see him next."

Vilkas gambles with his next question. "Do you miss him?"

The only answer to that question is the groan of the wind beating against the rocks of Skyforge. A shiver overcomes Asena as she refuses to meet her green eyes to the critical eyes of Vilkas. There's a frown betraying her lips. Vilkas already knows the answer to the question. She wouldn't be back if she truly missed her husband in a way that trumps her commitment to the Companions. And she's still coming to the acrid terms of that fact, because she's torn between the nostalgia of her former life and the ethereal content of her new life.

Finally, her head tilts as she turns towards Vilkas. Her eyes reflect the glow from the forge, mimicking the fire that Kodlak remarks burns within Asena. "I'm a Companion, Vilkas. Please don't ever doubt my commitment."


	5. Chapter 5

**Part V:** my heart set my hands on fire

Farkas and Vilkas were, at one time, nearly the same person. One ceased to exist without the other. Two terrible young men, flitting around Jorrvaskr, always bothering the warriors for stories and training tips. They were terrors at some times, constantly begging for opportunity to train and hunt. For the longest while, they were an inseparable mass, bound together like gum. As time elapsed, though, and their duties as veteran warriors amongst the Companions came to form, the two brothers spent waning time with one another. Men of their talents needed to be shared amongst the other warriors.

Springs returns to Whiterun with the roll of thunder and the drum of rain upon the rooftop of Jorrvaskr. Despite the dreary weather, the Companions grow eager with the change in weather. Springtime means that life comes back into form now that they are no longer buried underneath layers of frigid snow. Temperatures spike, and the sun even teases the hold. As soon as the best weather makes its appearance, Vilkas drags Farkas out south towards Falkreath, then west along the southwest mountains of Skyrim. He isn't entirely sure how successful a hunt will be now, but he sees the importance of spending quality time with his brother.

The first night camping out in The Reach is chilly. Its Farkas who kindles a roaring fire, the brawnier of the brothers proud of his accomplishment. They sit around the fire in a dull silence, Vilkas with his eyes to the stars, while Farkas peers into the darkness surrounding their makeshift camp. In the distance, the soft coo of an owl from his perch can be heard. It's a chilly, peaceful calm away from Jorrvaskr and all of its responsibility.

"Do you remember our first hunt alone?" Farkas questions, a grim chuckle shaking his broad shoulders.

A little smirk plays behind the flickering shadows on Vilkas's face. He smiles and cocks his head towards Farkas, a wild flash in his eyes. "You mean, the time you almost let me get killed by a spider?"

"I thought the cave was clear," Farkas defends.

"You abandoned me in combat!" Vilkas accuses with a laugh.

"You know I don't do spiders, Vilkas," Farkas quips. His face falls for a moment as he seems lost in thought, a wave of guilt twisting a frown at his face. "You know...I didn't serve much help for Asena when Skjor sent us to Dustman's Cairn. Werewolf hunters? No problem. Spiders? I'm out."

There's a pause while Vilkas considers Farkas's mentions. A small portion of Vilkas hopes to forget altogether the happenings at Jorrvaskr, about the fire-haired warrior with a fierce disposition and unwavering loyalty to her new Companion family. But there's no escaping her aura. Asena has unfolded herself into one of the prime warriors of the family, already stepping on the toes of those of the Circle. People like Aela and Skjor are fit with delight about the upcoming of Asena. One more cog in their fighting machine.

"She lived. You lived. It's in the past, Farkas," the brother speaks, a distance growing in his voice.

Farkas, as typical, doesn't recognize the tone in which Vilkas plays with. Instead, he seems more absorbed in discussing the one thing the brothers shared - the Companions.

"You know, I think Asena has a better shot than Aela," Farkas comments.

Vilkas snorts, an eyebrow arching. "You know very little about archery, brother."

"So?" Farkas argues haughtily. "I'm not blind. Besides, have you witnessed her out in the yard training at all hours? I'm not sure she knows a day off."

"I try to avoid wasting my time with others training unless I'm involved," Vilkas admits.

"You usually have your nose in everybody's training, brother," Farkas points out.

Vilkas remains in a stunned silence, pinned into a corner of truth by his brother. Perhaps it was true. A man of strong opinion, Vilkas always felt obliged to give every Companion his thoughts and suggestions. But he strays from making comment on Asena. She's too cunning and fiery. It's not his place to formulate critiques, especially when there's growingly little to criticize. Aela has shaped Asena into a daunting Companion with a keen eye and relentless spirit. In the short time that has elapsed since Kodlak welcomed her into their ranks, a judgment call Vilkas deemed blundering, she'd already made her presence disconcerting.

She's a force to be reckoned with. Even Vilkas couldn't deny it.

But he stills defeats himself with worry about Asena. Something about her still toils at Vilkas's better judgement. And a man raised to trust his heart, Vilkas still yields an amount of resentment for that reason.

Even if he's the only Companion that feels that way.

"I don't know, Farkas," Vilkas relents, offering his brother the truth.

Farkas shakes his head, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Perhaps, you do," he reasons ambiguously, a habit not common for the cut-and-dry twin.

"You're speaking in riddles," Vilkas snaps, annoyance thick in his voice.

"You're the smart one of our pair," Farkas chaffs. "You should be able to figure it out."

A creep of heat nips at the back of Vilkas's neck and into his cheeks as he glares away from his brother. He isn't entirely sure the driving point Farkas attempts to make, but the ghost of what Vilkas predicts which is being made causes Vilkas to guard himself. He does not need Farkas, of all people, picking at his mind with such juvenile assumptions. Especially ones that question Vilkas's stance on the new Companion.

Vilkas yields the conversation. Tilting back on his bedroll, tossing the thick fur over his body without another word to his brother. Farkas chuckles darkly, but releases his brother from their verbal sparring. He remains stonily quiet as the power of the fire begins to wane, and the chill of night settles. His eyes remain stuck on the vast sprawling of the nighttime sky above them, eyes darting from star to star. For a while, he simply spectates before the vexation of sleep never joining him takes over. Then he begins to count each individual star, wondering if tonight Asena did the same.

* * *

The brothers remain out on The Reach for several days before returning to Jorrvaskr. Outside to the steps leading to the mead hall, dainty springtime flowers sprout up from the cracks in the steps and along the brush to the side. Life has once again returned to the desolated earth of Skyrim.

The mood within the mead hall is that of high spirits as the twins enter. Torvar is already drinking and singing, Njada encouraging his antics. Vilkas observes, at the far end of the dinner table, Aela and Skjor sit in close proximity, whispering urgently to one another. A rush of curiosity pricks in Vilkas's senses.

"What do you think they're plotting?" Vilkas muses to Farkas.

The brother shrugs. "Maybe the decision to gift Asena."

Vilkas squints, wheeling towards his brother with shock. "What makes you say that?" he demands.

Farkas chuckles. "You speak as if you're surely surprised."

"What have they told you?"

"Nothing, but I'm not a complete oaf, Vilkas. I can put some things together," Farkas retorts.

"Skjor and Aela have lost their minds," Vilkas growls.

Farkas cocks his head. "You think so?"

"There's no way Asena is ready to join The Circle." He expects Farkas, his own brother, to agree. But when an immediate chorus of agreement doesn't arise from him, Vilkas shoots a dubious gaze at him. "What? You really believe she's ready?"

Farkas shrugs nonchalantly, stepping forward to drop his things into a chair. "Nobody really take into account my judgement," he replies plainly, "but I can't formulate an argument against it."

He feels a secret amount of betrayal from his brother's words. Vilkas assumes that Farkas will always owe his unwavering support, but this causes Vilkas to fail to recognize that Farkas is completely capable of birthing his own opinions. And, unfortunately, this one didn't align with his own. An uncomfortable silence forms a rift between the two brothers as Vilkas tosses his things into the chair next to Farkas, not bothering to retract his belongings and put them away.

Instead, Vilkas retreats towards the back door. Just as he pulls it open into the training yard, he comes face to face with the object of his chagrin.

Asena stands on the other side, green eyes wide with surprise as her empty hand sits prepared to open the very door Vilkas had yanked open. In her other hand is her bow, something nearly an extension of her limb now. Her exposed arms and cheeks are sunkissed from the good weather that had blessed Whiterun. Hair is tussled by the breeze.

Vilkas doesn't even offer a greeting, brushing past Asena. Somewhere as he continues down the steps outside, Vilkas catches an indignant huff from the warrior, before the door to Jorrvaskr shuts behind her. He pays no heed to her, deciding to bother Eorlund for the remainder of the day to avoid the rest of his Companion family. Everyone is oddly enamored with Asena, and he detests their tainted minds right now.

Midday slips into evening, and Vilkas finally decides he can't keep hiding from the rest of the Companions forever. He slips back into Jorrvaskr, ducking towards the barracks rather than joining the rest of the family for dinner. Downstairs, Vilkas sees Skjor exiting his room, and he decides to pounce on the other Circle member to wrestle out his grandeur reasoning to gifting Asena.

"You're really going through with this?" Vilkas demands.

Skjor's face remains relatively neutral, save the momentary twitch of amusement at the vehemency of Vilkas's words. For a moment, the man attempts to determine what exactly Vilkas is accusing him of, before a dawn of realization hits his face. Skjor nods stoically, his one good eye flickering with mirth.

"She's a formidable warrior, Vilkas," he replies slowly, pausing for a moment to think. A cruel smile twists on his lips as he continues, "Whether you'd like to admit it, because for some damned reason you have a quarrel with her, she's every bit of a Companion we desire."

"She's not ready for it."

The beast blood.

Nobody could ever really be prepared for the beast. Even the likes of Aela, the daughter of a Companion, or Vilkas and Farkas, completely raised within the walls of Jorrvaskr, weren't completely prepared for accepting the transformation. The acceptance of the monster is a different plane of agony and power mixed into one. Some were completely destroyed in the initial process.

Skjor shakes his head. "Really? Because even Kodlak has backed my decision here."

There is very little to debate the Harbinger's weight on the matter. Vilkas knows that. Whether Skjor has truly received Kodlak's blessing on the matter or not, the younger warrior knows there is no altering Skjor's mindset on this endeavor. Asena would be the next member to carry the beast blood, and Vilkas could not combat this any further.

"The beast blood isn't some gift for you to be handing out," Vilkas hisses. "That's not the meaning behind it."

Skjor simply shrugs, as if he could care less what Vilkas has to say. "Asena is an asset. She's ready." Skjor doesn't falter on his decision. He concludes the conflict, brushing past Vilkas so that his shoulder catches that of the younger warrior. Vilkas grits his teeth, holding back a snarling remark as Skjor exits the barracks.

Defeated, he retreats into the security of his bedroom without another word. Everything is a losing battle for him. Nobody trusts his intuition on Asena, and now he fathoms that maybe he's the one in the wrong here. Unwilling to contemplate that measure, Vilkas drowns himself in one of his books in a futile attempt to disassociate from the world.

The night, Vilkas lays down in bed for another evening of fruitless sleep. Somewhere outside the walls of Jorrvaskr, he swears he can hear a howl resonate in the night air. He clamps his eyes shut, praying to the Gods that his Companion family isn't making a hasty mistake.

* * *

**A/N:** So I wanted to actually take a moment to thank anybody reading and reviewing. This story is kind of my break from long bouts of studying, and I constantly fear if the quality is that of something people enjoy to read (I try my hardest to write well, but I have a lot of priorities on my plate as of current), but you guys make me feel a little well on what I produce. Thanks for everything, readers, you all are gems :)


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I have seven finals over the next four days, but here's a gift to you all amongst my suffering. :)

* * *

**Part VI:** devil may cry at the end of the night

A storm besets itself upon Jorrvaskr.

The loss of Skjor at the hands of the werewolf hunters situates a heaviness in the air amongst the Companions at Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas knew there could be nothing good at sticking your head into the wasp nest that is the Silver Hand. But Skjor and Aela insist on pursuing the downfall of the hunters. This pursuit left Skjor dead. While there's a period of mourning for Vilkas at the loss of his family member, Vilkas altogether isn't surprised by the outcome. Nothing good could come from tossing more fire into the savage flames already fueled by the Silver Hand.

The death of Skjor cripples Aela's sting operation on the Silver Hand for a while. She doesn't show her grief, but Vilkas sees the exceptional amount of solitude the huntress seeks. Enough so that Asena is left to grapple on her own.

Aela's absence leaves the red-haired warrior at a loss, passing time in the training yard while her mentor seeks solace in the wilderness. Asena tries to act like it doesn't bother her, but Vilkas can see the distance Asena seeks from the rest of the Companions. They may be her family, but Aela is easily her counterpart and closest confidant.

It's Kodlak who approaches Asena with a contract. There's a treasure hoarder in Riverwood looking to pay someone to find an item buried away in some tomb. Asena eagerly jumps at the opportunity to escape the walls of Jorrvaskr and to tempt her mind with something other than the barren emptiness that is Aela's extended absence.

She recruits Vilkas to come along.

At first, he's nearly blindsided by the request.

"Aren't you capable of taking care of this?" he asks, almost mockingly.

Her green eyes burn, eyebrows knitting together. "I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think it was a two person job," she retorts.

Vilkas sighs, running a hand through his hair. It's of poor taste to deny a fellow Companion assistance. And the crude reality is, there's no reason for Vilkas to turn down the request. He's just not entirely sure how to handle Asena on a one-on-one basis. But he's an adult, and a leader, and decides his best choice is to humor Asena. Despite himself, he goes with Asena south to Riverwood, and then out to the tomb.

He's not a fan of the Nord burial tombs. They're homes to the living dead, and Vilkas thinks the dead should remain dead. But, of course, every fine-things collector desires items usually wedged deep into the bellies of these tombs, and are unwilling to risk their own skin for their prize collections.

So it's a job for a Companion.

Their excursion remains rather quiet. It's a mix between their lack of adherence to one another, and perhaps the mix of grief from losing Skjor that sticks to their flesh, making for an oddly silent time. Within the tomb, their silence is needed. Asena leads the way through the stony tunnels, green eyes surveying the land.

The tunnel finally opens into a wide chamber. Old, rotting steps lead onto the main level of the room, which Vilkas takes no time in scaling downward. Asena doesn't follow, remaining on top of the balcony, scrutinizing a dead-end to their left. He's about to scoff her for wasting time when suddenly a threatening hiss fills the air.

Pivoting, Vilkas comes face-to-face with a draugr. The creature closes the distance with a raised sword. He can smell the rot from the dead soldier. He clenches his teeth, grabbing his sword with lightning speed, swiping it down so that it collides into the shoulders of the feeble-bodied draugr. The dead Nord goes crashing to the ground with a guttural scream. Just as Vilkas smirks to his victory, his eyes catch sight of a second Draug wielding his sword just paces away. The blade comes crashing down, but never makes contact with Vilkas. Instead, an arrow embeds itself into the eye socket of the nasty beast, the draugr collapsing to the ground.

Vilkas wheels around, eyes wide as he catches sight of Asena on the balcony. She points and aims farther up the chamber, downing another draugr.

"There's more coming your way!" She warns.

Vilkas pivots, taking a steady breath as two draugrs lumber into the chamber. One hefts an axe over its head, while the other is taking aim with arrows. The warrior rushes forward, the sound of steel colliding with the own steel of his sword. He swiftly disarms the axe-wielding draugr, all the while arrows soar past his head. The next move brings the draugr down.

Several feet away, the other draugr lays on the ground with an arrow stuck deep into its throat. Vilkas freezes, listening for any other threats. Silence resonates in his ears, save the thrum of blood rushes through his adrenaline-fueled system.

Danger passes, and the warrior stands over the fallen bodies of the draugr. There's a well of guilt as he looks at the twice-deceased warriors. He wonders, for a second, what causes the dead to come back to life a second time. His musings are cut short as Vilkas realizes there isn't an indication from Asena of her outcome to the battle. The warrior turns, eyes sweeping across the balcony in hopes to find her dwelling up there. But there is no presence.

"Asena?" He calls. The resolute silence that answers him sends fear down his spine. His voice becomes deep with worry as he repeats, "Asena?"

He clamors up the rickety steps to the balcony. She's sitting against the wall, wordlessly panting while her trembling fingers close around an arrow piercing her shoulder. She groans, green eyes clamping shut as her hands fumble around the free flow of crimson profusely leaking from the wound. The arrow is deep, so much so that the only viable part of the arrow is the shaft. The stony head remains wedged into her skin.

"It's a ways in," she reports weakly, Vilkas kneeling next to her. Her skin is pale and sweaty already, a panic seizing the female.

"It's okay, we'll take care of it," he consoles. He grabs the sides of her face, forcing her green eyes to gaze into his. "Look at me, Asena." Her eyes blink back tears. "You gotta breathe for a second, okay? Breathe for me."

She rests her head on the cave wall, sucking in a shaky breath. Her body trembles as he reaches, placing a firm grip around the shaft of the arrow.

"Breathe," he counsels.

Agony rippling through her frame, Asena draws in a deep, rigid inhale. Firmly, he applies force against the arrow. It loosens and begins to slide out of her shoulder. Asena cries, catching a sob with her teeth barred. Finally the arrowhead retracts, free. She spits a curse.

His concern isn't put to rest as the wound now seeps freely. Hands fumble as Vilkas retracts his typical set of bandages, frowning at the positioning of her wound. He'll need to wrap most of her upper torso to keep the wound covered. Heat prickles as he cheeks as he inspects her cuirass, unsure how to ask her to pull it down.

An agitated Asena suddenly grabs the shoulders of her cuirass, tugging it down past her chest with a growl.

"Can you just hurry before I bleed out," Asena snaps.

He's stunned by her instinctive agitation, holding back a humored chuckle in this dire situation. He does his best to wrap Asena's torso, trying to ignore her feminine curves now exposed by her hiked-down cuirass. When he ties off the bandage, Asena is lost in a pained trance. Her eyes remain shut, tears staining her cheeks.

"It's done," Vilkas half-whispers, reaching to grab her arm with reassurance.

Asena rolls her head to face Vilkas, eyes flickering open. "Thank you," she utters.

He smiles weakly. "Will you be okay?" he asks.

She shrugs her good shoulder, sweat still beading along her forehead. "I'll make do," she responds stiffly.

Sitting down beside Asena, Vilkas plants his back against the wall. She needs a moment to recuperate, and he a moment to consider their next plan of action. There's no chance Vilkas is heading into the depths of the tomb alone, especially after how difficult the draugr last proved themselves to be. And there's no chance that Asena, even with her hotheaded intentions, could continue onward and combat the vicious draugr defending the burial tomb.

He listens to her edgy breaths until she's come down from her panic, giving her the silence she desires. Finally, Asena sighs.

"I'm okay," she tells him.

A soft chuckle rattles his chest. "You could say that," he muses, tapping the bandage lightly with his finger. "But you're in pretty bad shape."

"I'm not dead yet," she says with a grimace.

"Famous last words," he quips.

"What do we do now?" She questions. Her trembling hands reach up to wipe at the sweat accumulating along her brow, brushing damp tendrils of red hair from her face. The motion only spreads the dirt caked along her palms across her skin, causing Vilkas to withhold a chuckle at the ragged sight.

For once, Asena looks human, rather than her pristine, fire-eyed self. Despite that, Vilkas catches himself admiring her. She's a realistic amount of grit and fire, mixed with some mystic clandestine being that Vilkas still can't place his finger on.

Asena catches Vilkas staring, her eyebrows furrowing as she abruptly snaps, "Well?"

He shakes his head, masking a smile as he turns away. "Nothing, that's what," he explains, "I'm not risking any more in this hellhole."

Her jaw clenches, the younger warrior bowing her head in silent defeat. Asena isn't the sort to end before the job is complete, but she knows Vilkas isn't wrong in his decision, reluctantly accepting his executive decision.

"I'm carrying you back to the surface."

Asena growls. "My shoulder is injured, not my legs." As she speaks, her fingers grasp around the rocky wall of the cavern. She flexes, pushing more with her uninjured shoulder and legs to scramble back to her feet. Her breath hinges itself in her throat as she rises, but she manages into a standing position with a jagged sigh. At full height, she gives a triumph exhale and stares down at Vilkas with a burning in her emerald eyes. "See?"

Vilkas can't help but laugh, rising to his own feet. He peers down his nose at her, inspecting the wounded warrior. There's no manipulating her into allowing him to carry her until her exhaustion wins over. So he let's her have her way, leading the way out of the tomb. He walks slowly, tentatively listening to her huffing breaths as she exerts herself forward. There's a part of him that wants to turn around to make sure she's okay, but fears her retaliation if he bothers showing any sympathy. He's learned by now that she doesn't want her weakness witnessed.

Relief floods over them as the tunnels lighten, promising the world above the surface. Vilkas keeps his pace moderate, sneaking a glance behind him at Asena trekking along.

"Almost there," he hums promisingly.

Outside, the air is refreshingly crisp. Vilkas draws in a long inhale of relief, threading his fingers together behind his head as he gazes up at the colors of dusk settling upon the land. The first births of stars can be seen as the vivid colors of orange and red fade into a dark blue canvas, the moons glowing vibrantly in their places in the eastern sky. For a moment, he's forgotten where he is, and the situation at hand, as he spends several heartbeats to admire the night sky.

Asena has herself propped up against the entrance of the tomb, eyes following Vilkas's to the sky. When he turns to face her, his eyes go to the bandage on her shoulder. While her cuirass has concealed most of the fabric, he can see an amount near her chest, already soaked with blood. Worry invades his senses as he takes a step forward, grabbing the arm of her injured side and peeling back at the cuirass.

"Hey!" She snaps, trying to knock his hand away.

Vilkas sighs. "Easy," he murmurs, "I'm not trying to violate you."

She relents, eyes falling to the bandages he's trying to uncover. Her lips purse together as she recognizes the same thing Vilkas does. The wound isn't clotting, and she's losing blood at a rapid rate.

"We need to get back to Riverwood," Vilkas presides.

"I can walk," she interjects before Vilkas can make any decisions. Her statement elicits a skeptical look from Vilkas, his blue eyes scrutinizing her state. "I'll make it."

"Gods, I swear woman," he mutters under his breath.

"I'm not a damsel in distress."

"I'd never imply the notion, Asena," Vilkas responds. "But if you drop dead, that's on me."

She brushes past him, walking forward at the briskest pace she can muster. Vilkas watches her set off, not following until she suddenly notices his absence as wheels backward to glare at him.

"Come on!" She snarls. "Somebody needs to make sure the wolves don't get to me."

Rolling his eyes, Vilkas relents and follows after her.

A bitter silence drifts between them as they slip into the forest. The overhang of the tree branches draws long shadows across the ground, and the waning dance of moonlight provides only minuscule luminesce to their path. Yet, despite this, Asena seems to trudge on with fearlessness. Her intuition and natural senses are sharp, and Vilkas is silently marveled by it. None of the other newer Companions could match Asena's instinct.

The darkness doesn't allow much for vision, and Vilkas can only speculate her condition by the raspy breaths coming from her parted lips. He wants to demand she stop, but the way she forces onward speaks differently.

Finally, he speaks up, "Asena?"

She doesn't respond.

He repeats her name, this time with more urgency, "Asena."

She comes to a halt, pivoting on her heel to face him. Now that he can see her, even in the darkness of the forest, he can recognize the paleness seizing her face. Her limbs quiver as she stands, knees locking to prevent her from swaying.

"You're going to kill yourself," he growls.

"I'm. Fine." She seethes between breaths.

"You're not," he disagrees.

There's something from the female that breaks. Her face falls flat, while a fire incites itself within her eyes. "Why can't you just leave me be?" She hisses. "There's very little more I can do to prove to you that I'm capable, that I belong as a Companion."

Her attack leaves Vilkas silent, eyes wide with shock at her words. The statement isn't even relevant, but he knows exactly where the rage bases itself from, only exemplified by the faltering state of her condition and the painful disappointment of failure to complete her contract.

"Asena," he sighs. "This isn't about that..."

"Oh?" She spits. "It has everything to do with it."

"We don't have time for this."

"Well, explain yourself before I bleed out in this damned forest. I didn't think you would need a whole night for the task." Her words are vehement, stinging with months of accumulating frustration and rage. His actions and attitudes since the moment she step foot in Jorrvaskr only adding more fuel to the fire.

Shoulders sinking, Vilkas searches her face before defeat resides in him. Her body is defaulting into survival mode and the one thing Asena wants is for Vilkas to answer for the way he treats her.

"Look, you're different than any person that's walked in the door at Jorrvaskr," he explains calmly, stepping forward so that he's within close proximity of her. He towers over her so that her head must tilt backward to meet his gaze, but she remains sturdy even under his scrutiny. "So forgive me, but it's just been hard to accept that an inexperienced, no-named warrior could win her way into the ranks and suddenly prove to be much more than warriors even twice in her age."

Green eyes glitter in the moonlight as a sudden smirking smile twitches the corner of her lips. Suddenly she lifts her head a bit higher, a cool calm spreading across her face.

"So you're saying you're jealous?" Her voice is hardly more than a cunning whisper.

He's done enough damage admitting that to her, and the injured female's face betrays her with a cheeky grin. Shaking his head, Vilkas suddenly swings down, collecting Asena in his arms and hoisting her up into his hold. There's a squeaking yelp that comes from her mouth as he picks her up, followed by an enraged howl.

"Let me down!" She bellows.

Vilkas smirks, holding her thrashing body close to his chest. Her struggle is short-lived, before Asena suddenly gasps in pain as her injured shoulder is twisted in the process. "Not a chance, princess," he remarks, his words eliciting a glare from Asena.

"The moment this is all over, I will kill you," Asena barks.

He only chuckles. "I count on it."

He can feel her rigidity against his grip, as if she contemplates putting up a further fight. Finally, Asena releases a pouting sigh, resting her head against the space between Vilkas's collarbone and neck. She's far from thrilled, but at least surrendered to Vilkas's help.

"You desperately need a healer," he comments grimly.

"Mikhai was..." She murmurs, before her words are caught by a wincing gasp. "Gods. Remind me that I have a vendetta out on those draugrs."

"In due time," he replies, "those draugrs will still be milling about tomorrow and the day after that."

"Good," she grouses.

There's a break in the forest up ahead. As Vilkas steps out from the treeline, he catches sight of the path twisting up ahead, around the bend of the river and into a field. Beyond, the lights of Riverwood dance in the distance. A man proud of his strength, Vilkas starts to feel the wariness of carrying the other warrior over the distance from the tomb. His heart quickens at the sight of the village, footsteps growing more sure and swift as he closes in.

"Almost there, Asena," he whispers.

His statement yields no response from the female. For someone who hardly lacks words, the quiet causes a shift in Vilkas's worry.

"Asena?" He gulps.

Her body has grown completely limp in his arms, dead weight he was mistakening simply as fatigue in his muscles. Panic seizes Vilkas as he tries to jostle her in an attempt to shake her conscious, though the motion yields no results. In the pale gaze of the moonlight, Vilkas can see the massive stains of crimson down her chest and onto her abdomen. His own arm encompassing around her back is soaked as well in her blood.

He curses, now rushing towards Riverwood.

"Hold on, Asena. Please, just hold on."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I'll be honest, I had hoped to get this chapter out a lot sooner. I'm not sure if it was just brain-fry from the previous week or what, but it took me more time than I thought to get this chapter onto paper (and I've honestly had a LOT of time to write it...but just couldn't get past a few blurbs here or there). I hope it's some sort of enjoyable quality. Enjoy, my beautiful readers. As always, I love you guys for reading and giving me such encouraging reviews. It means the world :)

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**Part VII:** keep it in and keep you out

Riverwood is quaint, at best. Its hardy existence relies completely on the lumber mill perched at the helm of the White River. There's nothing remarkable about the village. It sits at the toes of the Throat of the World, a useless checkpoint between the towns of Falkreath and Helgen and the city of Whiterun. Tonight, Vilkas needs the best out of the village, praying with each closing step to the riverside village that they yield a healer in their midst.

Sweat beads against Vilkas's forehead and neck as chives Asena from the forest to the village. Blood glints in the mocking leer of the moons above, a profuse stream escaping from the bandages Vilkas applied on her shoulder. It saturates her cuirass and bleeds out against his arms. The only thing preserving Vilkas from contemplating her life source is the faint warmth of her shallow breath against the crook of his neck. She's clutching onto life, somehow.

One of the guards spots Vilkas's hasty travel on the road towards Riverwood. He can hear voices resonate in the village streets, but can't make out the words above his own rasping gasps. By the time he reaches the gateway to the village, a small crowd of inhabitants swarm forward with curiousity and concern.

"A healer, I need a healer," Vilkas pants. His arms tremble around Asena's fading frame, but he holds fast.

Heavy scrutiny passes amongst the people, jaws unhinging at the sight of the bloodied warrior in Vilkas's grasps. One woman gasps, turning into the chest of the man beside her to shield her eyes from the gruesome scene. Suddenly slender, plain-faced woman steps forward to grab Vilkas's arm with a steel grip. She thrusts her head in the direction of one of the village boys, eyes narrowing with the rigid formality of a legion commander.

"Frodnar, run ahead and tell Mikhai we're coming," she instructs firmly. The young boy blinks before pivoting and taking off with no question, a gray hunting hound dashing closely behind his heels. The woman turns back towards Vilkas, hauling him into motion.

"Follow me," she then snaps at Vilkas.

Her demeanor isn't purposely rude, but the sense of urgency that passes over the woman governs her. She weaves through the street, towards the sparse amount of houses in Riverwood. She directs them towards a larger home with an unlegible sign nailed next to its door. Upon the steps of the home, a tall Breton with blond hair gazes with an expression that pales as they approach. He's accompanied by a young woman, who blinks the remnants of sleep from her drowsy eyes.

"Delphine, what's going on?" The Breton questions harshly.

The woman directing Vilkas sucks in a breath as the approach. "Travelers. This one is bleeding out, Mikhai."

The man hastily meets them at the bottom of the steps, reaching forward to grab the waning Asena. There's a brief moment in which the healer pauses, eyes studying the dirt-smeared face of the Companion in Vilkas's arms before racing back to meet those of Vilkas, eyebrows furrowing as the healer hesitates. In the moment of his cessation, a bubble of fury wrestles within Vilkas as the healer stands motionless with an unreadable expression. But the man suddenly hoists Asena into his arms, shaking off the blockage in his thoughts and making way for the door of his establishment.

"Come, Mia," Mikhai announces curtly towards his assistant. As he paces up the steps, he turns towards the rest of them. "With all due respect, I ask anybody to remain out here."

The door opens and closes. The racing adrenaline within Vilkas's body careens to a sudden halt, but the sound of his heart thrumming against his ribcage still reverberate in his ears. Silence is deafening. Vilkas hadn't noticed how heavy his lungs feel after the straining of hauling the other Companion from the forest. His arms ache, despite himself, and fatigue clings to his bones. But his physical exhaustion is a worry far entombed in his mind, the forefront of his brain wrapping itself around the concern of Asena's life hanging in dangerous balances.

The woman, Delphine, remains at her post not far from Vilkas. Her analytical gaze studies Vilkas for a moment before she resigns with a faint sigh, turning to head back to the main road of Riverwood. She takes several paces before halting, turning back towards Vilkas once more.

"Mikhai's a talented healer. She's in good hands," Delphine attempts to encourage. Her words elicit a weak smile from the Companion as his knees sink and he finds a post at the bottom steps of the healer's house. She frowns. "If you need a place to stay, I own the inn around the corner. Consider your stay free if you choose."

Vilkas looks up from his seat, a tired sigh emitting from his mouth. "I..." he gulps, "Thank you. I'm going to stay here and wait for a while..."

Delphine's eyes drop with a flicker of sympathy. She only nods softly, before turning to take her leave.

The warrior sits silent on the step, tilting his head back to meet the gaze of the moons. Secunda and Masser glower back with celestial comfort. He isn't a man for prayer, but in this instant he finds himself groveling to any God that will listen. This instance remains pinned on his head, Vilkas decides, and the guilt clings to him while Asena's life lay in balance. He should've been smarter in the draugr tomb. He should've stopped her from stubbornly carrying on. The various simulations dance through his mind, the warrior suddenly sighing with ebbing frustration.

Thoughts of how he'll return to Jorrvaskr with the grim news tease his brain. For a moment the fear settles in, wondering how Aela will take to the news of losing not only her first confidant, Skjor, but also Asena as well. Before he delves too deep into these musings, Vilkas tears himself up from those murky waters, chastising himself for counting that chick before it hatched. There's still hope, and Asena's best hope is with the healer right now.

But he worries, nevertheless. By the Gods, how sick worry makes him. If the situation didn't remain so grim, Vilkas would chastise himself for the amount of concern he's conjured for the fiery-haired Companion. He swore sometime ago he wouldn't bother with Asena, yet now he's immersed in her, whether he wants the duty or not.

His anxious mind weighs heavily upon Vilkas. At first he attempts to listen from the doorstep, but no noise escapes the thick walls of the healer's home. He relents, resting his gaze on the stars where he tries to feeble count them. The act alone makes his chest sore because the only thing it reminds him of is the dying Companion within. His focus doesn't hold, either. He gets past a dozen stars before another thought steals away, and Vilkas can't remember the next number in line.

At last, he perches his elbows on top of his knees, burying his chin in two outstretched palms. His eyelids feel heavy. There's little chance he'll find rest tonight, but Vilkas can't deny the burden of fatigue weighing on his body. Just as he begins to find comfort in this position, the door to the house swings open, nearly causing Vilkas to jump with shock.

It's Mikhai who steps out in the night air, drawing in a long breath as he joins Vilkas. The blond Breton steps down to the bottom step. "She's going to be alright," he explains calmly. The man folds his legs so that he sits on the remaining space of the step next to Vilkas. "My assistant is cleaning and tending to her."

Vilkas turns to the healer. His hands still shine with the remnants of water, as if freshly washed. Blood. There had been so much blood coming from Asena. An amount of sweat still beading along his hairline, clinging to the straw-colored tendrils of his hair. The healer looks beat, but brown eyes still faintly glow with the satisfaction of a successful job.

A long exhale of relief comes from Vilkas. For a moment, he's at a loss of words to express his gratitude. Finally, Vilkas says, "I can't thank you enough."

The healer smiles grimly, waving his hand dismissively at the gratitude. He seems like a humble man. "What happened to her?" he questions, voice assertive. His tone is laced with some masked emotion that elicits an amount of hostility from Mikhai, for what reason Vilkas isn't entirely sure.

Vilkas frowns, rubbing his jawline. "Draugr."

They stare, both sharing a mutual understanding of the implications regarding draugrs. There isn't a long list of many who charge into those tombs, even for a lump sum of money. The living dead aren't creatures to be taken lightly. The miracle presents itself that Asena returns alive from the tomb, when perhaps the odds had been stacked in favor of her succumbing to her volatile injury.

Mikhai turns toward Vilkas, mouth parting as if to start a thought before his eyes suddenly skim over Vilkas's armor. And amused smirk tugs at his lips as he exhales a grim chuckle.

"Here, let's just go down to the river and clean your armor off," Mikhai suggests. "People may start circulating rumors about you being an assassin if they see you like that."

Vilkas speculates the dried brown stain on his armor, eyebrows raised for the occasion. He can only assume how rugged and disheveled his looks after a day like today. Scambling to his feet, he follows Mikhai down the streets of Riverwood to the banks of the White River. Moonlight reflects in the trickling waters of the river, and through the ripples Vilkas can catch the faint glimmer of the stars in the Skyrim sky. He and Mikhai kneel down in the damp mud near the river, the latter retrieving a rag and dipping it into the river. Vilkas sheds his armor, laying the stained metal between them.

Instead of handing the rag to Vilkas to clean his own armor, Mikhai haunches over to scrub at the dried blood caked onto the steel surface. The warrior sits back, baffled by Mikhai's gesture of kindness, but doesn't rebuke his motions.

"There's an artery right under the collarbone," Mikhai explains, pointing to a spot on Vilkas's armor for demonstration. "It got nicked...nothing an experienced healer can't handle, but she lost a lot of blood. Her body will need time to recover from that."

Vilkas nods slowly, threading his fingers through his hair. Instinctively, his hand falls down to the space along his collarbone, feeling the area. The arrow would've had to destroy part of her rib to reach the artery, the thought making Vilkas wince. She's a fanatic for light armor, something he's heard her saying in regards to being light on her feet; it's a chapter taken straight out of Aela's book, and Vilkas curses it.

"She's resilient though." Mikhai hasn't even looked up from scrubbing away at Vilkas's armor. He then leans back, commenting with a bitter laugh,"It's a miracle she got up from that wound in the first place."

There's a hardness in Mikhai's brown eyes. His mouth opens only for an elongated silence before his voice quietly breaks the night. "A wound like that...isn't too difficult, like I said," he mentions, eyes darkening. "But there was some backlash...like her body was rejecting the healing. It can happen, not often, but it can."

His next statement sends a shock through Vilkas's body, as Mikhai murmurs,"...the last I heard of such difficulty was on a patient with lycanthropy."

_Werewolf. _

The nature of the were-beasts comes with a multitude of dilemmas. Restless nights is just one of the issues. A strong immunity to most diseases is another, though not without the double-edged sword of a built up immunity towards healing. In this case, Mikhai could still combat the nature of the beast blood, but he was not a fool.

_He knew._

A heavy silence wedges its way in between Vilkas and Mikhai. He doesn't know what words to speak, because confirming Mikhai's suspicions is dangerous, but there's an honest part of Vilkas that doesn't want to lie to him. He is a healer, and the man who saved Asena's life. The two men moon at one another, before Mikhai chews thoughtfully on his lip and shakes his head.

"An anomaly," he murmurs with a single laugh. "Regardless, she's fine now."

Panic still rages within Vilkas as he realizes the round-about way in which Mikhai refers to the knowledge he holds. If it were any other Companion sitting before Mikhai, the situation would get hostile and violent. But Vilkas draws in a steady breath, eyebrows furrowing as he holds his ground.

"What is your interest in the affairs of Asena?" Vilkas presses offensively. With werewolf hunters hounding the Companions, looking for blood, there isn't comfort with a simpleton such as Mikhai being aware of their beast blood gift.

Mikhai only shakes his head. "I guess none, anymore," he admits, straightening his back as he senses the defensive he's now taken against Vilkas. "This isn't my place to speak on the matter. The path Asena follows no longer concerns me."

"What does that mean?"

"I've said too much. Look, if you want to know, that's details you talk to Asena about. It's her life, not mine," he replies stonily. A waver of discomfort now replaces the remnant defense the Breton held moments ago. His last words come wistfully, as if squeezing forcefully from his chest, "Her privacy is the least I can owe her since I left."

Vilkas opens his mouth to protest before his brain crashes to a halt. He finally registers the last words of Mikhai's response, a wave of recognition suddenly washing over him. "Wait..._you are...?"_

The blond squints, head tilting. "She didn't tell you?" he asks, a pain seizing his mahogany eyes.

Vilkas slowly shakes his head, unable to even formulate a response.

"We...were married...but that time is gone," he explains, his shoulders slumping as he glances away with an amount of regret. Mikhai looks out over the gentle swimming of the White River as it sinks into the south. Vilkas tries to unearth the emotions overcoming the stout Breton, his own heart extending to the former husband of the fiery-haired Companion. Grief still clung to Mikhai's frame, whether he shouldered that burden well over the last span of time since their separation or not. "We've both taken different paths than the one that led us together. I am not bitter about this...I let go because I knew both of us had changed, and because she was too stubborn to give up for my sake."

"You...?"

Mikhai nods slowly. "_I _ended our marriage," he confirms remorsefully. "She was willing to _leave_ the Companions for me. When she lied to herself that she could do that for me, I knew that it was I who would have to draw the line."

Neither of the men exchange any further words. Their musings beside the river become discontinued as Mikhai rises to his feet, nodding at the armor.

"Nice and clean," he states with a weak decree of pride. "Come, let us return. Perhaps Asena is in better shape to receive visitors."

Gathering his armor, Vilkas carries it and follows Mikhai silently back through the sleeping village. Most of the firelight from within the houses are deceased, and the only sound that echoes in the air is their footsteps across the stones along the path. As they near the house in which Asena had disappeared into a while ago, the woman, Mia, steps out into the cool evening air, hugging a fur blanket to her small frame.

"She's awake for the while...and she's asking for him," the young, bleary-eyed Nord states, nodding her head towards Vilkas.

The warrior's heart lurches in his throat at the announcement.

"Thank you, Mia. Go home and get some sleep," the healer commands his apprentice. She blinks rapidly, dipping her head respectfully before disappearing into the night. Mikhai himself begins to head away from the front door of his establishment, turning back to face Vilkas. "Best not to keep her waiting," he chuckles, "but I must conclude my night...I don't think I can face her after everything just yet..."

He turns and just as he rounds the corner of the house, Vilkas calls, "Mikhai?"

The Breton pauses, glancing back at the Companion.

"I'm sorry..." Vilkas apologizes.

Mikhai doesn't meet his gaze. The phantom of a sympathetic smile playing along his lips in the shadows of the night. "Promise me you'll take care of her," he tells Vilkas. "I'll always love her. But I was not the one to be compatible with her free spirit."

"I'm sorry you..." Vilkas begins to protest the misunderstanding, but Mikhai hushes him with a terse smile and the reluctant wave of his hand.

"Good bye, Vilkas."

The night is silent once more, save the soft rustle of the tree branches ruffled by the breeze. Vilkas draws in an unsteady breath, gazing up at the vast skies in an attempt to put off the inevitable facing of Asena. He wonders if he should apologize for not protecting her better, for being careless himself in the draugr tomb. Guilt still feasts on his soul at the aspect that Asena had almost been a senseless casualty to the mission. He isn't sure how she'll react, but there's little time to keep the red-headed Companion waiting.

He enters the front hall quietly, as if his steps will brutally shatter the serenity of the healer's house. It's a small room with two beds on either end of the room, one concealed by a curtain hanging from the ceiling. The second one holds the frail figure of Asena. Her mangled cuirass lays on the floor near the foot of the bed, the warrior now adorned in a plain white shirt. There's traces of remnant blood near the floor, though most of the mess is cleaned up.

From her bed, Asena smiles warmly in the soft glow of the firelight. Green eyes trace over Vilkas with a glimmer of amusement as he approaches, pulling a stool forward and perching at the side of the bed next to her.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Asena purrs playfully. Her voice is weak and raspy.

A harrowing chuckle passes through the warrior. "I might as well. You were nearly dead," Vilkas admits. "I was worried."

She laughs quietly, wincing as the tight constriction of the bandages compress against her shoulder. There's a moment of consideration before Asena speaks, stating, "Sometimes you have me believing you wouldn't care about the difference of my life or death."

Her statement makes Vilkas grimace, shaking his head in response. "I care, I do." He reaches forward, his calloused hand seeking her soft, tender palm. The moment he touches her, Asena reels back with reluctance. A faint shutter releases from her body, her own fingers dancing to nestle under his palm.

A ghostly smile ebbs at her lips. "I know," she replies, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

Eyelids flutter as Asena tilts her head back, exhaustion visible rippling through her being. Her chest rises and falls into a slow rhythm, sleep overcoming the younger Companion. Vilkas remains steadfast, still holding her fragile hand in his own, afraid that if he let go, she will vanish into the night.

And he looks at her, still gazing at an enigma. Just when it seems he's unearthed one aspect of the fiery-haired Companion, another mystery presents itself. The ambiguous, nearly ominous, words from Mikhai present Asena as a completely different being - something even Vilkas could never foresee. The fact makes Vilkas restless, but he muscles down that feeling. There isn't time to be thankless about that matter. Instead, he's just glad that the Companions at Jorrvaskr wouldn't be planning another funeral.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Does anybody read this anymore? I'm sorry for my extended absence, especially after I promised I would be updating it soon. Ooops...life happens. I actually over the last few months wrote maybe three different versions of what happens after section seven. And then sat down today and wrote this bit instead. The other three were bland and offered very little to enhance the story or interactions between Vilkas and Asena. So, I hope you guys enjoy this one!

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**part viii: **hungry for the kill

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It's cold out here.

Asena shrinks into the protective warmth of her layered furs, trying not to allow the frigid sensation to dull her senses. Green eyes sweep across the snowy textures of the hills before her, squinting in attempt to distinguish the shifting vegetations in the breeze from any possible movement of prey. Her breath hitches as she suddenly see the slightest movement several yards down the hill. In an instant, her heart rate heightens with the hunter's adrenaline – both fueled by her own upbringing and the cry of the beastblood within her.

Fingers collect themselves against the bowstring of her weapon, the index and the middle finger of her right hand mindlessly hooking themselves against the string. Her free left hand withdraws an arrow from the quiver, and in a swift motion has her bow elevated and prepared for the wandering creature to step into plain sight.

Her breath remains shallow, forming little, misty billows that swirl around her lips before dissipating into the frozen air. Even her own keen eyes could mistake her motionless figure as part of the landscape, dark colored furs blending into the rocky winterland and body as statute as a tree. If her prey doesn't step into a clearing, Asena could freeze in that spot.

A flash of stag's horns dance past the grey branches of the winter-dead bushes. Asena narrows her eyes, her muscles in her arms anticipating the upcoming task. Her heart is the only thing betraying her composure, and it's not something she'll ever be able to tame. Synapsis on her senses scream, craving every passing moment of this high in the midst of her hunt. It's blood hungry and savage, raging like a storm on the sea through her organs and racing into her blood.

_Almost there_.

But instead of the little dancing of horns stepping beyond the protection of the vegetation, they suddenly vertically rise. Asena's eyebrows knit themselves forward as a cervine head gazes out over the tops of the branches. And it keeps rising, massive, human-like shoulders squaring themselves, followed by a large, muscular torso. In one arm, the beast holds a magnificent spear, its crafting beyond anything Asena has ever seen.

The young hunter realizes that, in this moment, she is the prey. She relaxes her arms, dropping her aim and loosening the grip along the bowstring. Even if she did yield a chance, her arrows would hardly mar the demonic creature.

"My Lord, Hircine," Asena breathes. There's a concoction of dismay and dread in her voice, shortly followed by a twist of elation. Hircine gazes at her with menacing eyes. Despite his cervine disposition, she witnesses a smirk tear across his lips.

In the distance, the hunter's horn reverberates like a messenger of Death.

* * *

"You don't stop, do you?" Vilkas asks for the third time in their journey home from Riverwood.

It's mid morning as they travel along the wooded trail heading north back towards Whiterun. Sunlight seeps in through the green leaves that gently sway in the constant, chilling breeze dancing across the forest floor. Lucky for the pair, the path is vacant of bandits and they haven't seen any forest predators during their trek. While Vilkas is more than capable of defending the two of them, and Asena couldn't be ruled out of the equation even in her injury, the duo appreciate the peace in their travels. The last few days were nothing short of chaos.

But Vilkas was determined to not waste time in prying Asena for answers that might unveil the incident at Riverwood, among other things.

The question causes Asena to bristle, the young woman's green eyes rolling as she shakes her head with disdain. The first time elicited an attempt to dodge the question, mentioning that they were due at Jorrvaskr and didn't have time to waste after a failed mission. The second, Asena admitted a strong desire to return home and to put the past few days behind them. But now, she was running out of poorly-thought-out lies to extinguish Vilkas's scrutiny.

An edgy sigh filled with frustration comes from the female's mouth as she whips her head to glare at Vilkas, her jawbone clenching as she bites back a snark remark in response to his prompt.

"Do I really surprise you?" Asena snaps, her eyebrows furrowing.

Vilkas gives a shrug, agreeing with her response. This wasn't uncharacteristic of Asena to be trudging forward despite her injured shoulder and the brink of death she had faced, but the secrets buried in Riverwood agitated a new series of curiosity in Vilkas - things beyond the closed-book the flame-haired warrior tend to be. While Mikhai hardly revealed much during their private conversation along the river two nights ago, it had been enough to ignite Vilkas's desire to unearth just what exactly was hidden within Asena.

They remained in Riverwood through another day and night. Mikhai was scarce, available just enough for Vilkas to offer him gold and extend his thanks. His assistant, the Nord girl named Mia, had been the one to frequent the healing house to tend to Asena and to give the visitors meals.

Thorough out her consciousness, Asena had been rather stoic and closed. She was kind to Mia, complimenting the young girl on her choice to pursue healing, but Vilkas could taste an ounce of forced genuineness. Once or twice, Vilkas extended questions to the injured Companion about life in Riverwood, to which she offered only curt responses to his queries.

Even a far distance from the quaint village, Asena rebukes any of Vilkas's concerns. And he, once again, faces the barrier that is Asena's stubborn mysteriousness.

"Surely you don't believe I'm going to _ignore_ the occurrence at Riverwood," Vilkas manages to rebuttal.

Her boots scuffle in the dirt as Asena digs her heels into the ground, stuttering to a halt. Vilkas doesn't realize for several steps that she's grown absent from his side, the warrior stopping and gazing over his shoulder. Her eyes blaze like emerald flames in the mid-morning sun, scrunched underneath her furrowed eyebrows. A typical man would be intimidated by Asena's seething disposition, but Vilkas is hardly fazed by her temper anymore. She was dangerous, but not haphazard.

"What?"

She raises the arm on her bad side, a small wince stealing away across her face that she quickly burrows away, keeping her arm raised and pointing a criticizing finger in Vilkas's direction.

"You have no right to my past or present…or future for that matter," Asena snarls.

There's a single moment where Vilkas remains silent, presiding over the fuming Companion and the response he recovers from his commentary during their journey. He almost admires the way she so devoutly guards her secrets, like a beast guarding its treasures. Teeth barred. Hackles raised. She truly embodies her beast form even in her human flesh.

But it's not in Vilkas's code to step down from what he's already committed to, and that's uncovering whatever Asena has masked away. Turning to face her, Vilkas drops his shoulders and squares up against the female Companion.

"Lest you forget," Vilkas begins with cold and articulate words, "you're a Companion. And whatever enigma you have locked away looks like a threat to the integrity and functioning of our guild."

Without a thought, a bitter laugh escapes Asena's mouth. "You might fool everyone else with your noble concerns for the 'greater good of the Companions' but I'm no fool, Vilkas," Asena accuses. Her fingers curl into tight fists at her sides as she shakes her head dubiously, another laugh emitting from her. "Your concern is merely your own selfish curiosity, and you'd die to find out my secrets in favor of destroying my reputation."

Her accusation hangs heavy in the air, radiating tension that feels like electricity between them. There's a wavering second in which Vilkas yields no response because Asena manages to disclose his actions. His jaw unhinges but no words find themselves at the tip of his tongue. The attempt at a retort falls dead before it even reaches his throat. Chalking that up as a loss, he manages the next thought that flashes through his mind.

"What _are_ you hiding?"

For a moment, the fire behind her eyes dies. Perhaps she's never considered her secrets as what they are, and to be harped upon as such evokes a different emotion from Asena.

"I'm not hiding," she replies, her voice wavering for a moment. Was that hurt in her voice? "But nobody has ever proven that they deserve to know a damn thing about me. To offer myself up so freely is juvenile. It's weakness." She draws in a jagged breath, as if trying to containing her emotions in their prison within her ribcage. "And _you_ certainly haven't proven yourself to deserve any part of me."

Her voice breaks when she says 'you.' But, despite the certain threaten of them, Vilkas doesn't see any tears betray her face.

She pivots and starts marching in the opposite direction – back towards Riverwood. Her flame-colored hair dances lightly in the soft wind that curls itself around the trees and sings through the wispy leaves of the short vegetation along the pathway.

Vilkas's stomach drops as he wordlessly tries to comprehend the matter. The conversation manages to forge itself into complexity beyond what Vilkas had originally intended. And now, he's a perpetrator by his own careless curiosity and critical assumptions. His hands furl into fists, teeth clenching with frustration as he wonders if it's worth going after Asena now that he's nearly destroyed any bridge of trust between them.

_Gods, Vilkas,_ he curses himself silently. He jumps after her, making a hasty pace to match her own pointed escape.

"Asena, wait," he calls desperately. "Let me apologize."

"Don't bother if it's only out of sympathy," she retorts without looking back.

He manages to catch up, reaching forward to grab her shoulder. Without any properly thought, his fingers curl around the bandages of her injured shoulder and tries to whirl her back around to face him. The motion causes Asena to cry out, but she steps forward in an attempt to wrench her shoulder out of Vilkas's grip. She takes two steps before wheeling back around, her cheeks red and slick with tears.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," Vilkas claims, his face paling. He isn't sure which offense he's apologizing for, but he figures it's worth for both incidents.

Despite the onslaught of her tears, Asena seems to rebuke both Vilkas's apology and the fact that she's breaking down in front of him. When she attempts to elude him, Vilkas reaches to grab her good arm, pulling her back with little conflict.

"Stop," she states. It's a mixture of imploring and demanding, as if she's not entirely sure where or what she desires to do in this moment.

"Asena."

"Don't." Her fingers resiliently wrap themselves around Vilkas's wrist, trying to tear his grip away from her limb. "Just let me go."

"No."

"I said –" She snarls now, her natural fire managing to convey itself through the tumult of emotion overcoming her. But her words become caught by the lodge of emotion in her throat, a weak sob escaping her frame. Hands find a place to cover her eyes, as in a feeble attempt to mask the unraveling emotions.

"I'm not leaving, and you're not running away," Vilkas explains softly, his voice gentle and warm. His extending arms suddenly wrapping around her quivering frame, drawing her softly into his chest. Her sobs muffle there, and he's able to contain the violent loop of sobbing and ragged gasping being emitted by the red-haired woman. She burrows her forehead against his collarbone, trembling against the arms that now brace her.

There's much Vilkas doesn't know or understand about Asena, but he can assume that the last person she trusted had forced her away. And while Mikhai of Riverwood had done it for the greater good of Asena, the woman still bore the retched scars of the vandalism of that sacred sacrament between them. Maybe she would never comprehend the justice Mikhai did for her sake, but she also would never fully recover from the death of their blessed vows to one another.

He isn't sure how long her emotional outburst lasts, but Vilkas remains quietly vigilant as Asena regathers herself. He won't try to bring her back from the brink, but instead remains a steadfast cornerstone as she gathers herself. There's a period in which Asena transitions from gasping breaths to quiet, steady expirations, and though he toys with the thought of questioning her state, he remains quiet.

Asena shifts, her head turning so that her cheek rests against his chest. She's a mess of a woman, Vilkas can't deny that, but the raw vulnerability he witnesses right now causes him to _admire_ her more. She has the emotional threshold of a stone golem, but he realizes her intense capacity when she finally breaks.

"I need to be better," Asena sighs, her shoulders sagging. The movement elicits a wince from the woman, her jaws clenching. "If I'm not better, I won't be worthy."

"Worthy? Of what?" Vilkas scoffs, a soft chuckle caught in the back of this throat. "You're more than worthy of a Companion. You're worth the whole damn lot of the warriors back at Jorrvaskr."

Her green eyes falter, escaping themselves from Vilkas's gaze. "It…it's more than that," she mumbles feebly, shaking her head. "You won't understand."

"Humor me," Vilkas challenges.

There's a pregnant pause.

"Too much," she utters, an exhausted sigh escaping her. "Not now."

There's a moment of hesitation before Vilkas resigns, "Okay."

Her eyelids flutter close and she sinks her frame back against Vilkas. His arms tighten, bearing her weight. Out of some instinct, one hand runs a gentle circle along her back, fingers tracing against the borrowed cotton shirt she had received from Mia.

In the daylight, he can see the faint blackened outline of a large tattoo that adorns her back. The antlers of a stag cross over her shoulder blades. To many it would simply be the symbol of a hunter. But Vilkas has perused the literature, and he's seen this symbol a dozen times over.

It's not just the symbol of the hunt. It's the symbol of the prince of all hunts.


End file.
